


See Love Shine

by Mazarin221b



Series: Through The Clouds [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, Retirement, Romance, Sussex, electrical problems, heating problems, old houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set right after Christmas, 4 months after Through the Clouds. John has a question he wants to ask. If he can ever work up the nerve.</p>
<p>  <i>The weight of time is pulling heavily on John’s heart of late. Short days and seemingly endless nights lend themselves to spending too much time pondering his future. Their future.</i></p>
<p>  <i>John leans forward to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. When Sherlock’s eyes blink open and he smiles sleepily, a half-formed idea that had been niggling at the back of John’s mind sharpens into a certainty.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	See Love Shine

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Mydwynter and Billiethepoet for a quick turn beta!

It’s the silence that startles John awake in the first blush of dawn; a quiet so profound it almost reverberates in his ears.  He slips from bed and pads quietly across the room and wipes the frost from the window.  The snow predicted yesterday has fallen in soft, fine drifts, and the exterior lights of the Lodge cast bluish shadows in the hollows and hills of the garden. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. The soft, gentle snowfall has left every branch and dead leaf with a frosting of snow that shimmers in the half-dark.

John shivers and turns back to bed. Sherlock is still sound asleep, one arm thrown over his head and the other tucked under his hip. They’d been together barely a week when John had noticed.  Sherlock  always had one hand tucked away; under a pillow, under his chest if he slept on his stomach, sometimes awkwardly shoved under his hip if he was on his back. When John asked about it, Sherlock had said he’d slept that way since he was a child, but he didn’t really know why. Habit, he supposed.

John climbs back in and tries not to jostle Sherlock when he does. He turns on his side and studies Sherlock’s face.  How well-known and beloved it is, still so beautiful, so endlessly fascinating after all of this time. John reaches out and carefully moves a curl out of Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock shifts a little in his sleep, eyelashes fluttering, but he doesn’t wake.

The weight of time is pulling heavily on John’s heart of late. Short days and seemingly endless nights lend themselves to spending too much time pondering his future. Their future.

John leans forward to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. When Sherlock’s eyes blink open and he smiles sleepily, a half-formed idea that had been niggling at the back of John’s mind sharpens into a certainty.

…………………………………………………

A grand, romantic proposal over a fancy dinner is right out, John realizes later that morning over his obligatory, heart-healthy oatmeal. Nothing ridiculous or sentimental, but he’s rather stuck on saying the actual words. _Sherlock, will you marry me?_ seems to be on a constant loop, strange at first to get his mind round but coming easier with time.  Perhaps out on a walk? Standing at the cliffside overlooking the sea? John can see it in his mind’s eye, the wind ruffling Sherlock’s hair, coat collar turned up against the chill. But then again, the wind is rather vicious this time of year, so perhaps not. Or—a nice evening at home, he could run a hot bath for the two of them, take Sherlock to bed and whisper his proposal in the dark of the night, under the covers…

He’ll say yes. John’s almost completely sure of it.

John stirs his spoon around his bowl, watching the patterns as if they could provide some sort of insight, like reading tea leaves in a cup. Unsurprisingly, none comes. He shoves the spoon in the bowl and leans back in his chair just as Sherlock bounds down the back stairs and into the kitchen, dressed in dark denim and suit jacket. John’s heart skips a beat and he smiles, hoping nothing of his thoughts are betrayed on his face.

“Where are you off to?” he asks, as Sherlock pulls a banana from the bunch and shoves it in his pocket.

“Consultation in Portsmouth,” Sherlock says. “I did tell you. Last night, remember?”

“Not at all. We were a bit…occupied, really. You can’t expect me to remember mundane details like that when you’ve got your —”

Sherlock goes a bit pink, as John knew he would, and clears his throat. “Yes, yes, I remember. Quite well, in fact. Regardless, I did tell you. Minor thing. Work of a day, at most.”

“Fine, that’s just fine.” John walks over to put his bowl in the sink and turn on the water. If he looks at him now, the entire game is shot.

He can feel Sherlock staring at his back, but he resolutely washes out his bowl and puts it on the rack. John’s heart starts to race. Sherlock is going to see through him in a second.

 “You’re worrying over something,” Sherlock finally says. “What’ve I done now?”

“Nothing. Why, should I be worried you’ve done something?” John turns to see Sherlock narrow his eyes.

“Don’t try that reverse logic on me. You, of all people, know better than that.” A horn beeps from outside. “Damn, that’s the car. I’ll text you.” Sherlock’s expression turns affectionate, and he leans forward to kiss John quickly before he snags his coat and bustles back out through the kitchen and to the front door.

John leans back against the worktop and blows out a breath. He’s going to have to be more careful.

………………………………

Two days later he’s watching Sherlock play his violin by the light of the fire in the front room, and the beauty of it fills his heart near to bursting. He watches the dip and pull of the bow across the strings, the slight sway of Sherlock’s body and the glimmer of firelight on his face, and thinks now might be the moment.  He waits until the song is finished and takes Sherlock’s hand to lead him to the sofa, but before he can say a word Sherlock kisses him with intent, with passion, and all is lost in the tide of overwhelming desire that races through his veins.

………………………………

He doesn’t want to ask Sherlock on his birthday, he knows that much. The cliché would forever mar the moment. New Year’s is probably right out, too, and that’s the day after tomorrow. Sherlock is upstairs writing, and perhaps John will just wait until he hears his chair move and his footsteps pace his study, and John will walk upstairs and simply ask Sherlock to come across to the bedroom, pull him to the window that overlooks the Downs, and ask him. _We have such a beautiful life here,_ he thinks. _I want him to know how much I cherish it. How much I want it, forever._

A creak from upstairs and John’s heart is in his throat. He climbs the stairs and walks down the hall to lean against the doorjamb of Sherlock’s study. Sherlock looks up from his laptop, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He flicks them off quickly when he sees John standing there. Ever vain, his lovely Sherlock is, despite how sexy John finds his glasses.

“Yes?” Sherlock says. “I’m just finishing up the chapter on blood spatter analysis and the importance of cast-off evidence. Is there something you wanted?” John swallows and takes a deep breath and Sherlock stands, waiting expectantly.

He can’t do it. He’s not thought of what to say well enough, words that would be intelligent enough, beautiful enough, to make plain everything he feels.  That are good enough for Sherlock to hear.

“I—I was just making lunch. Can I get you anything?”  John mentally smacks himself in the forehead. Jesus Christ, what a cock up.

Sherlock looks at him, suspicion crinkling the corners of his eyes.  “Nothing for me,” he says carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely fine,” John croaks, and beats a hasty retreat.

………………………………………………………..

John viciously hoovers the carpets, his frustration with his own inability to get up enough courage to simply sit down and talk to Sherlock like a goddamn adult leaving him in a foul mood. It’s New Year’s Eve and he is supposed to be going to a drinks thing in Eastbourne with some friends from the clinic in a few hours. Sherlock even said he’d go. But at five in the evening the wind is whipping the seafoam into a fine spray and coating the road with a treacherous sheen of ice. The power flickers every once in a while as the wind shifts direction, and John’s been outside twice to check and be sure nothing has fallen on the line.

It’s absolutely disgusting out.

It’s only after he stops moving about so much and sits down at the kitchen table for a drink that he realizes just how cold the house is. He passes a hand over the radiator and they’re stone cold. Perfect. Even the Lodge is turning against him.

The basement is even colder when John stomps down the stairs. The boiler is gas but the starter and new pump is electric, so God knows what part of it isn’t working this time. The pilot light is lit, and he hits the manual starter button a few times. The flame catches and roars to life, but the pump won’t come on. The water is obviously heating, but nothing is moving up through the maze of pipes that lead to the radiators. Damn. He’ll have to call someone out.

John grumbles back up the stairs and pulls out their two electric space heaters and puts one in the kitchen, then drags the other upstairs to the bedroom. Sherlock pokes his head out of his study as John goes past.

“Ah, yes, the boiler’s out again,” Sherlock says. “I was about to go downstairs and tell you, but I was…”

“I figured that out, thanks. We’ll have to have someone out after the storm’s over. No one is going anywhere tonight.”

John leans down to plug the heater in, and flicks it on. The element is just starting to warm and John pulls a jumper out of his dresser and turns to bring Sherlock a cardigan when there’s a reverberating boom from outside and the entire house goes dark.

“Damn,” John says, and cautiously feels his way across the hall to Sherlock’s study.  “Sounds like the transformer just went. Sherlock, you still in—“ John stops when he feels a timid hand on his shirt, and the faint outline of Sherlock’s body against the pale square of the windows.

“I would be remiss if I didn’t take advantage of this rather singular opportunity,” Sherlock says, and John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s mouth before they touch. John drops the cardigan in favor of winding his arms around Sherlock’s back and snogging him until he can barely breathe, off-balance and a bit dizzy in the dark.

“Tell me we’re not leaving the house now,” Sherlock says. “It’s dark and cold and windy, we’d never get ready, and I don’t want to see anyone but you anyway.”

John nods even as he presses kisses to Sherlock’s throat, smiling as Sherlock arches and shivers in his arms. “Why on Earth would I want to be with anyone else?”

……………………………………..

John pokes at the fire in the bedroom fireplace, pushing the logs around until they blaze high, throwing light and heat out into the high, dark room. They’d pulled blankets from the beds and wrapped themselves up on the floor, a platter of cheeses and prosciutto and fruit and crackers between them, a snug, cozy little picnic in front of the fire. Lights from the dozen or so candles John has placed around the room illuminate the entire space with a golden glow. John pours more champagne and is glad they’d bought two bottles for the party.

“I called. The power should be back on tomorrow,” John says, and pops a piece of cheese in his mouth. He’s not even supposed to have much cheese any more, but cholesterol be damned on New Year’s Eve. “Do you remember having to climb through the basement at Baker Street, looking for the extra batteries for the torches? I thought you’d broken your neck.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I thought I had, too. Mrs. Hudson was absolutely insistent she’d had them on the back shelf. Too bad she’d put an entire dining suite in front of it.”

“Still not as bad as the crack den, looking for Isa Whitney. It was so dark—I still can’t believe we got away with faking that fight to get thrown out. It was terrible. You’d never have been able to pin me down like that in a real fight, I don’t care how long your arms are.”

“I absolutely could,” Sherlock says, and takes a long drink of champagne. “I’ve been on top of you enough now I know exactly where your weaknesses are.” He turns to John and winks, and John’s mouth goes dry.

“No fair exploiting sexual knowledge,” John croaks, and he can feel the memory of the weight of Sherlock’s body pressing him down slide like fire along his spine. He reaches out and slips his hand inside Sherlock’s blanket and traces a finger down his shoulder. Sherlock just grins and glances up through his eyelashes, amused and flirtatious.

John swallows heavily, and the warmth of love fills his chest.

_Now. It’s got to be now._

But he can’t breathe properly, and his heart clenches painfully, and Sherlock’s eyes are gorgeous in the firelight. John takes a deep breath and blows it out. He takes a drink of his champagne. He’s going to be sick.

Sherlock sighs heavily and spins toward John and lunges at him, knocking him over onto his back. John recognizes the tinkle of a glass tipping over onto the floor. Sherlock straddles his hips and pins John’s shoulders to the floor before John even can gather himself enough to retaliate. When he looks at Sherlock, his expression is so intense John can’t look away from it.

“You’ve been driving me absolutely insane this last week,” Sherlock says. “One of us has to say it. Marry me, John. Please.”

“How did you—no, I’m not even going to think about it. Absolutely. Yes. God, yes. I want to, more than anything. I love you.” John reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pull him down into a kiss. Sherlock hums with affection and wriggles a little bit on John’s lap, and John gasps at the contact.

“See how simple that was?” Sherlock says as he kisses the corner of John’s mouth. “How could you doubt I would say yes? No matter when, or how, you asked.”

John chuckles. “I wanted it to be perfect. You deserve perfect.”

Sherlock slides his hands up under John’s shirt and jumper, and John jumps a little at the cold. “I happen to think this is absolutely perfect,” Sherlock says, and drags his hands down to John’s flies. “I believe it’s customary to cement this promise with sex,” he adds.

John unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and kisses his sternum. “Absolutely,” he says, and swirls his tongue around Sherlock’s nipple. The floor is hard and cold under his back, but the parts of his body pressed to Sherlock’s are warm, almost burning hot. “I want you naked. God, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock nods and they both strip quickly in the cold before they spread the blankets back on the bed and climb under to twine together, shivering. Sherlock settles between John’s legs, his cock hot and insistent at John’s hip and John feels a bit muzzy at the weight of Sherlock’s body on his. The lube is absolutely freezing and it takes a few moments to warm, both of them giggling at each other like schoolboys under the blankets, but when Sherlock finally sinks home the humor dries up and John’s body flushes hot with the intensity of it. His legs tremble around Sherlock’s hips and his cock slides against Sherlock’s belly with every thrust, and it seems like forever and an instant before his orgasm overtakes him and he shudders, face buried in Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock gasps when John comes, his thrusts speeding up until he, too, shivers against John’s body.

John winces a bit when Sherlock pulls back and reaches out for a towel from the bedside table. It’s warm under the blankets now with Sherlock beside him, and the fire is ebbed to a red glow. There’s spilled champagne on the floor, the heat and power is still out, and every plan he’d had for his proposal was wrecked by Sherlock’s uncanny ability to anticipate.

John curls against Sherlock’s side and presses a kiss to his chest.

It was absolutely perfect.

 

 

 


End file.
